It’s late. I’m tired. And earthquaked. I’d no sooner finished up my final box of bric-a-brac placement, when the latest in seismic waves rocked my little piece of Los Angeles.

What occurred in my imagination was far more dramatic than what actually took place. In my mind, my bookshelf toppled over on me and I was knocked unconscious by my collection of creepy, antique clowns and monkeys. Naturally the wound would cause me to fall into a coma, and since the boyfriend is in Vegas for the weekend, I wouldn’t be discovered until late tomorrow. Although he’d rush me to the hospital (taking time to wolf down a Cliff Builder Bar – this candy bar masquerading as a protein supplement he’s addicted to) and I’d be put on life-support, my vegetative state would last for days.

By the time I came out of the coma, I would have lost 180 pounds (making me a very fashionable 5 pounds) and my speech would sound like a recitation of Dada poetry. For some reason I’d be scared of celery, too, though the doctors would never understand why.

Throughout unpacking my ridiculous belongings, music played. I found I gravitated to two kinds of tunes while I worked: female musicians who could be linked (either directly or loosely) to the "Laurel Canyon sound," and creepy, difficult noises. (And yes, I know that for some of you, those two things are one and the same. Har – de – f**king – har.)

What follows is a short version of today’s playlist. For the full experience, I recommend playing this music while dusting off crickety, old portraits of dead people, polishing a Samurai sword, trying to find the right place to hang portraits (that’s plural) of St. Rita, and eating a salad from Trader Joe’s. And, of course, during the last song, get into an earthquake.